side, tending her last "case."

Often in his delirium he calls her name, and she takes his fevered hand
in hers and holds it, and he falls asleep.

Each morning the doctor comes and looks at him, asks a few questions and
gives a few commonplace directions, but makes no comment. It would be
idle his attempting to deceive her.

The days move slowly through the darkened room. Anne watches his thin
hands grow thinner, his sunken eyes grow bigger; yet remains strangely
calm, almost contented.

Very near the end there comes an hour when John wakes as from a dream,
and remembers all things clearly.

He looks at her half gratefully, half reproachfully.

"Anne, why are you here?" he asks, in a low, laboured voice. "Did they
not give you my message?"

For answer she turns her deep eyes upon him.

"Would you have gone away and left me here to die?" she questions him,
with a faint smile.

She bends her head down nearer to him, so that her soft hair falls about
his face.

"Our lives were one, dear," she whispers to him. "I could not have lived
without you; God knew that. We shall be together always."

She kisses him, and laying his head upon her breast, softly strokes it as
she might a child's; and he puts his weak arms around her.

Later on she feels them growing cold about her, and lays him gently back
upon the bed, looks for the last time into his eyes, then draws the lids
down over them.

His people ask that they may bury him in the churchyard hard by, so that
he may always be among them; and, Anne consenting, they do all things
needful with their own hands, wishful that no unloving labour may be
mingled with their work. They lay him close to the porch, where, going
in and out the church, their feet will pass near to him; and one among
them who is cunning with the graver's chisel shapes the stone.

At the head he carves in bas-relief the figure of the good Samaritan
tending the brother fallen by the way, and underneath the letters, "In
Remembrance of John Ingerfield."

He thinks to put a verse of Scripture immediately after; but the gruff
doctor says, "Better leave a space, in case you want to add another
name."

So the stone remains a little while unfinished; till the same hand carves
thereon, a few weeks later, "And of Anne, his Wife."

THE WOMAN OF THE SAETER.

Wild-reindeer stalking is hardly so exciting a sport as the evening's
verandah talk in Norroway hotels would lead the trustful tr